


Don't Go

by noodlecatposts



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Feyre is going through some things., Post-Break Up, Rhys is too., eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23020351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: Feyre was leaving Velaris, and she didn’t think she’d be coming back.Rhys spends the days after she leaves very, very drunk.A breakup fic with a happy ending. Eventually.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 28
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Angst warning!!!**  
>  I know I usually post lighter stuff, so just an FYI. This was posted forever ago on Tumblr... Part two, as well. I will share that chapter tomorrow.

**Feyre was leaving Velaris, and she didn’t think she’d be coming back.**

It wasn’t the first time that she’d tried to get the hell out of the city, but Feyre was determined for it to be the last. Things were looking good; she’d managed to get all the way to the station without a meltdown, lugged her one bag all the way across town, and even bought a ticket with the cash she had in her pocket.

This was it, the thought filled Feyre with relief. She was leaving. At last.

There was no reason for her to stay. At least, that was what Feyre kept telling herself, chanting the reasoning in her mind; she was determined not to lose that last bit of strength. If that last little bit of courage slipped away from her now, Feyre would only find herself sitting in a puddle of her own tears, crying inexplicably at the bystanders, drowning in her profound grief.

“The train is running a little behind,” the clerk told Feyre apologetically. “Bad weather is coming, I hear.”

“Thank you,” Feyre said shakily. The woman behind the counter gave her a careful look, concern shining in her eyes. Feyre ran away before the woman could ask if she was okay. Feyre wasn’t, but she couldn’t talk about it.

Of course, the rain began as she waited, tucked beneath an awning and away from the storm. It was the perfect representation of the turbulent emotions beating Feyre up inside. She didn’t want to leave, not really, didn’t want to spend another empty day without seeing her friends. Mor. Cassian. Azriel. Even Amren. 

But she had to. Needed to. Feyre needed to escape, to find some way to breathe again. Her mind was made up.

Running. That was what Feyre was doing. She was running. And yet, what else was there for her to do? Feyre couldn’t haunt this city forever, keep floating around like some wraith trapped in an old life that didn’t exist anymore. It’s been six months, and during that time, haunt was exactly all she’d done.

_Train arriving for Cesere arriving in 5 minutes._

Velaris was riddled with old remnants of their relationship, old, tainted memories of their life together. The ghosts cast shadows on the warm, bubbly cafe she used to get her coffee from every morning, and Feyre couldn’t go to the gym anymore. She might run into someone, and she’d definitely collide with old memories of sparring matches, of hitting and kicking hard enough to draw blood and then sneaking away together to kiss away the hurt.

Feyre wasn’t able to go to her favorite restaurant anymore, either. She couldn’t bear to pass Rita’s on the street, to hear the music or smell the food. Besides, she was too afraid to run into any of them. Into him. 

_Feyre, darling._ The thought was enough to bring familiar tears back to her eyes. Feyre felt ridiculous; she definitely had no right to be such a mess, so long after the fact. It’d been so long, and it was all her fault. Feyre thought it was pathetic, how she could still hear him like it was yesterday, could even imagine those wicked violet eyes watching her.

She’d panicked, lashed out at him with all of her insecurities, torn him into shreds, and run for the hills. Feyre thought even now that maybe her past had wounded her too significantly, made her incapable of loving again. He loved her, and she threw it all back in his face. And then some.

He was… desolate when she left, storming out of his apartment in the middle of the night without looking back. The way he’d said her name then, it stayed with Feyre, even now. 

“Feyre,” a broken voice said. 

Wait, a second.

Feyre looks up and into familiar, devastating eyes. Her heart stills, and she thinks she stops breathing. It’s been a day since she saw him last, but it feels like it’s been so much longer. 

“Rhys,” his name escapes her, quiet and surprised. The smile it earns is bittersweet, almost like he misses the sound of her voice saying his name too.

_Train arriving for Cesere. Please prepare to board._

Feyre’s eyes dart towards the platform. She can hear the train arriving over the din of the storm. It’s time to leave. Like she planned. 

She glances back at Rhys. He watches her with solemn eyes.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, defensive. She has to look away from him; it’s too much to bear, the emotions swirling in those eyes too familiar. She’s leaving. “How-Who told you where to find me?”

Rhys’s lips twist in the ghost of a smile. “Your landlady always had a soft spot for me.”

Feyre snorts. It’s true. Rhys always managed to talk them out of any trouble they got into. Noise complaints were their most significant issue.

Then she realizes something about what he’s said, “Why were you talking to my landlady?”

His eyes darken at the question, and at last, those striking eyes fall away from her face. Feyre feels like she can breathe a little easier without him watching her face, reading her every thought like a book only he knows the language of. It’s embarrassing how much effect his has on her still. She left _him_.

“I know you saw me the other day,” Rhys confesses, voice barely a whisper. Pain flickers across his face now, and he clenches his jaw, the muscle flickering with the motion. “With Ianthe.”

A knife twists in her heart. It’s one that’s been stuck there for months now, one she can’t pry out as hard as she tries. One she put there herself, and no one else.

“It’s okay, Rhys,” Feyre whispers, hoarse. Her throat is filled with tears; Feyre prays she can keep them back until she’s boarded the train, so she doesn’t have to cry in front of him. Add insult to injury.

“It’s not,” Rhys’s voice is cold. Feyre knows that means he’s angry, distraught. When she looks back from the train, his eyes burn her. “None of this is okay. Feyre, why are you leaving? Why did you even leave in the first place?”

“There’s no place for me here anymore,” Feyre tells him, skipping over the second question. She thinks about what she saw the other day. Rhys leaving some little hole in the wall with Ianthe hanging off his arm, the sight had completely undone her. She’d known that Ianthe always had a thing for Rhys, didn’t care if he was available or not, but Rhys was always adamant he despised her. And yet, there they were all over each other.

“Only because you smashed it all to hell!” Rhys snaps, and Feyre flinches. He doesn’t raise his voice very often, nearly ever, and he never has with Feyre, even when she’d get upset and pick a fight with him, snap at him, scream at him. It wasn’t how he fought.

“Honestly, Feyre, what the fuck?” Rhys snarls. “I tried to get a hold of you for months, but you- you just shut me out.” His face darkens. “I know you were there that night I came to your apartment; I know you were right there on the other side of the door listening to me plead for your forgiveness. You ignored me.

“I don’t even know what I did!” He stops, biting his lip when his voice raises high enough to attract attention. Feyre ducks her head to hide the tears that are sure to come any second now. 

“You didn’t do anything,” she whispers sniffling. Feyre doesn’t want Rhys to feel bad about this. It’s better this way. “It’s good that you’ve moved on. I’m- happy for you.”

The words taste like ash.

“If you think,” Rhys says, voice full of incredulity, “that I’ve moved on, that I’m past you, you’re even more lost to me than I thought.”

Feyre gapes openly at him. His words are meant to hurt, and they do. 

“When I saw you the other night, I was fucking _thrilled_ ,” Rhys huffs a breath and runs his hands through his wet hair. The rain pours heavily down around them. “I’ve missed you so goddamn much, but then you looked at me like I was the most horrific thing you’d ever seen, and you _bolted_. I- _fuck_. Feyre, I-”

“Don’t say it,” she cuts him off, voice thick with tears. The train has come to a stop at the platform, and guests are making the mad dash to board. Feyre doesn’t have very much time left. “Just- don’t, Rhys. It’s done.”

“I know you think you aren’t worthy of it, of us, that you’re holding me back or bringing me down or whatever, but _Feyre_ , you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me- even now,” Rhys says, his voice breaking.

A sob escapes her. Rhys looks like he’d like nothing more than to scoop her into his arms and hold her close. Feyre thinks she’d like that too.

“Just stay,” Rhys begs, eyes lined with silver. “Come home, and let’s fix this.”

_Last call for boarding for Cesere._

“Feyre, don’t go,” Rhys pleads, catching her by the wrist when she moves away. Feyre turns around to face him, surprised by the forwardness. He cups her face, searching her eyes with his, but Feyre’s already made up her mind. She pries his hands gently away from her face and begins to walk away. Rhys lets her go reluctantly, fingers holding on until the very last second.

“I never stopped loving you,” Rhys tells her, as she walks away. Feyre misses a step, pauses. His voice is dangerous, full of promise. “And I never will.”

Feyre can feel those violet eyes on her every step of the way. Rhys doesn’t leave the train station after she’s boarded, and once she’s claimed a window seat, Feyre presses her face to the fogged glass. She can still see his shadow there, waiting for her. Hoping.

The train leaves for Cesere, and Feyre goes with it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys spends the days after she leaves very, very drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **And the angst continues...**

**Rhys spends the days after she leaves very, very drunk.**

He stood so long in the rain that terrible day, staring down the tracks after her, looking out and over the horizon like he could still see her. Rhys can’t tell if he’s feeling so sick from the alcohol constantly in his blood or from wearing damp clothes all the way from the train station to the dive bar he started this binge at. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it neither. Maybe it’s because a broken woman left for Cesere and took his heart and soul along with her.

Ianthe calls him. What a stupid man, Rhys was. He ignores the call. Let’s it ring until it goes to voicemail. The next call, too. And the following one. After that, Rhys powers off his phone entirely and goes digging in his pantry for the next box of scotch.

He’s had so much to drink here lately that Rhys has had to break into the good stuff. A waste of fine scotch, but a necessity. He’s not fit for public right now.

“Rhys, I thought you were fucking dead!” Mor exclaims when she all but breaks into his townhome the next day, finds him passed out on the couch, face down.

“If only it were so,” he drawls. Rhys’s words sound slurred even to him. He scowls when his cousin smacks him, groans when she grabs him by the elbow and lifts him off the couch. Rhys isn’t prepared to move anywhere, and Mor is much stronger than he ever gave her credit for.

“You idiot,” she curses, dragging him down the hallway and dropping him unceremoniously into the shower. Rhys yelps when he trips, nearly breaking his face on the tile. “I know she hurt you, but Feyre has been gone for months now. It’s kind of late to have your meltdown, isn’t it?”

The sound of her name breaks all the little pieces remaining of Rhys’s heart. He sniffles.

“Rhys,” Mor breathes his name, and her pity makes him even more miserable. Rhys knows what she’s about to say; he’s heard it a million times. 

“Just go and try to see her, again,” Mor continues. Her voice has become much softer, falling victim to the hot tears streaming down his face without permission. Rhys is surprised he can even form tears anymore. “Tell her you miss her, and—“

“Can’t,” Rhys says hoarsely, staring at her fashionable red heels. “She left.”

Questions shine in Mor’s brown eyes. “What?”

“Like—moved. She’s gone,” Rhys’s voice is forlorn. He needs more to drink, but he doesn’t think he’ll make the walk back to the bottle without help. “I asked her to stay—at the train station. I told her I loved her, but she… went anyway.”

“I see,” his cousin’s voice goes cold. Rhys looks up and into those familiar brown eyes to find them swirling with anger. Belatedly, he realizes she’s mad at Feyre. Not him. “Then fuck her. We don’t need anyone who doesn’t want to be here, Rhys. Now pull yourself together because you have a company to run. She’s not worth it.”

Rhys would like to disagree.

In fact, he’s taken aback by the hateful words she spits. Rhys’s immediate instinct is to jump to Feyre’s defense, protect her. It isn’t her fault. He moved too quickly, gave too much too fast, and she got scared. Rhys is just as much to blame. Feyre was reacting the way she’s been trained to respond.

He must say something of the sort, too drunk to filter his words. Mor humphs and turns on the faucet. Rhys yelps at the cold water rains down on him, sniffles at the flashback it triggers of him standing in the rain at a train station.

—

The grief does eventually give way to anger, stoked to life, and fueled by Mor’s.

Feyre left. Abandoned him. Because Rhys loved her, and that was scary.

His words become barbed, and Rhys catches himself sneering at people often, releasing little bits of that pent up rage at unsuspecting innocent victims. His family takes the brunt of it, but they take it in stride.

_“She always made such a damn mess—everywhere.”_

Mor rants with him about Feyre, allows him to complain about things that never really bothered Rhys before. That may not even bother him now.

_“Say that to my face.”_

Cassian picks a fight with him whenever he senses that Rhys needs an outlet for all that rage built up bitching with Mor. They scream at each other and occasionally come to blows, but in the morning, Rhys apologizes, and Cassian tells him to get back to the gym, weakling.

_“Get the fuck over it.”_

Amren tells him to stop being a bitch whenever she catches him wallowing, whenever he starts to backslide into the grief and fall apart.

_“Would you like something to drink?”_

Azriel is always there to offer kind words and another glass of something strong.

And then one day, Rhys just—doesn’t think about it anymore.

—

Rhys figures out a new kind of normal. He sells his townhouse, gets rid of the place haunted with memories of a happier time. He goes to Rita’s with the gang more often, laughs, and drinks without trying to get drunk and just has a good time. Rhys only feels a little pang when he orders her old favorite from the coffee shop they liked to meet at. Then he tastes it and gags because—shit, he forgot how terrible Feyre’s taste in coffee was.

He can’t bring himself to call Ianthe back, but Rhys does flirt with attractive people at the bar whenever his family drags him back out into the fray. He lets them buy him drinks, and they chat, engage in casual, flirty affection. Rhys can’t bring himself to take any of them home, but he enjoys the attention just the same.

And then, out of nowhere, one day it’s Valentine’s. Rhys’s progress comes to an abrupt halt, and he gets roaring drunk with Cassian. Vaguely, the next day, he can recall making out with a stranger in an alleyway, but he does remember that her eyes were the wrong shade—too blue, the color of a sunny sky and not the waters of the Sidra during a storm.

Rhys passes out during the cab ride home, wakes up to driver shaking his shoulder. It’s time to pay; he’s home. Rhys is drunk, and he’s an oversharer sober, so he starts to tell the guy about a girl that Rhys used to know, how he told her loved her last Valentine’s Day, and how she left him standing alone at the train station one day and didn’t come back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!   
> Per request, some more angst!

"Hello," Tarquin says softly, holding his cup of coffee and smiling in a way that reaches his eyes. "Mind if I take this seat?"

Feyre blushes despite herself. She's on lunch break, sitting in the dining area of the bakery she managed to snap a job at. Alis, the owner, clearly took pity on her. Feyre slides the sketchbook she was drawing in off of the table, pulling it close to her chest to hide her work. It wouldn't be the first time someone's caught her sketching the sight of the Sidra weaving through Velaris, but she still feels self-conscious, like a glance at her art is a glance into her very soul.

Tarquin is a regular customer at the bakery and her friend. He's kind and good-humored, and Feyre likes him. He's the kind of guy that makes it a point to remember people's names, and he holds the door open for anyone, which earns him funny looks sometimes.

Feyre doesn't mind it, though. Tarquin makes her smile, and the flirting is an excellent lift to her spirits, which are perpetually down these days. In theory, Tarquin would be easy to fall for, to let in and to love—but Feyre never got her heart back from someone else.

"Hey," she says, laughing a little in a pure release of nerves. He's noticed her drawing, and Tarquin eyes the bundle in her arms for a moment, considering. Then he returns his blue eyes to her own gaze without pressing for information.

"I thought I'd say hello," he tells her. He flushes, "Obviously." Tarquin laughs so nervously that Feyre can't help the fond smile that spreads across her face. She likes Tarquin.

"Well, take a seat," Feyre invites him to her table in the corner. It's a good spot, out of the way, and it provides an excellent vantage, so she can sketch people who catch her eye. Tarquin takes the seat and blocks her view. It doesn't matter too much, though. Feyre only really sketches two things: the Sidra weaving through Velaris, as she was moments ago, and sometimes, a pair of eyes that sparkle like the night sky.

"Thanks." Another shy smile.

They spend most of her break in a comfortable conversation. Feyre has gotten to know Tarquin and his cousins well over the last few months. They helped her find somewhere to live so she could stop wasting precious money on a hotel; Cresseida, in a rare act of kindness, helped Feyre furnish the new home. They're her—friends.

Still, Feyre thinks of the happy and carefree laughter of her other life. Her definition of friendship has changed some.

"I was wondering if," Tarquin chuckles under his breath, and Feyre's mind lets go of the memories of laughing and eating and drinking until being sick with happiness, of quiet nights curled up on the couch and sharing warmth, of an old home that won't welcome her anymore.

She looks up from her chewed down nails towards her company. Tarquin looks inclined to faint.

"Uh, I was wondering if you'd like to go with me to a gallery showing," her friend says softly, head ducked low as he avoids framing it like an actual question. "That gallery you like is having a show Friday."

"Oh," Feyre breathes, taken aback. She's seen the signs, of course, that Tarquin was interested in pursuing more with her, but Feyre thought she'd have more time. A few more chances to draw out the boundaries of their new friendship.

"It's okay if you don't want to," Tarquin adds hastily. "I know when you moved here you were... Uh, anyway, if it's something you aren't ready for —or just not interested in— that's fine. I'll back off."

For some reason, that makes Feyre say yes.

*

"Your date is here!" Suriel shouts out from the front door. Feyre ran late at work. She got home moments ago; she's nowhere near ready.

"Shit," Feyre hisses under her breath. She rushes out into the living room, sparing Tarquin a friendly smile. He frowns at her flour-covered appearance.

"I'm so sorry," Feyre pleads. "Just give me like five minutes, and then I'm all yours."

Suriel wiggles her eyebrows as she steps towards the still-open door. There's a poetry slam night or something equally Suriel that Feyre's roommate is headed for. "You kids don't stay out too late!"

The door closes, leaving them alone, and Feyre laughs nervously. She's _nervous,_ but she can't figure out if she's excited or terrified.

"I'll be back!" Feyre says, backing away from Tarquin. "Don't go anywhere!"

Tarquin's laugh follows her back to her bedroom.

*

The evening is pleasant. Tarquin takes Feyre to dinner, and she laughs through his work stories. The art gallery show is fantastic, and Tarquin trails after her, happy to be ignored while Feyre gets lost in the paintings. They stay until the end, and then they get ice cream, even though the cold weather warrants something warmer.

"I had a lot of fun tonight," Feyre tells him with a smile. She stirs her ice cream with her little plastic spoon, an outlet for her nervous energy. It was for all intents and purposes a good date. Maybe even a great date. "Thanks for inviting me."

Tarquin _beams_ at the praise. Brushing back some of her hair from her face, he tells Feyre, "I'm pleased to hear it."

She's not all that surprised when he leans in for the kiss. Feyre basically gave him the all-clear to proceed; Tarquin's warm, full lips press against hers, the barest of touches. It's a test. Their eyes meet briefly, and then Feyre tugs him in for a second kiss, equally as pleasant as the rest of the evening.

Yet, Feyre is underwhelmed. She knows what it's like to be set on fire by nothing more than a look, by the barest graze off a hand, by an arrogant, mischievous smile. She doesn't dislike kissing Tarquin, but Feyre isn't desperate for more.

Does that come afterward? After really getting to know someone? After countless hours of banter and fighting and confessions?

Is love supposed to be something that grows with time? Or is it something that just snaps into place when you find the right person?

Is Tarquin that right person? Or, did Feyre leave them standing in the rain at the train station when she ran away?

Still, Tarquin doesn't seem disappointed. The man smiles, brushes his lips with hers once more, and tells her, "Have a good night, Feyre."

*

"Morrigan?" Feyre gasps when she enters the apartment. Her former best friend glares at her from where she sits, perched on the end of their ratty old couch. Mor in her sky-high heels and designer clothes looks so out of place here; Feyre finds the image jarring.

Is it former? Feyre isn't sure what she should call Mor; she hasn't spoken to the blonde in months. Not since Feyre ran out on Rhys that horrible night.

Suriel grins like she's having the best night of her life, "She showed up like a tornado, banging on the door and demanding to be let in. So, I let her in."

"Thank you for letting a stranger into the house," Feyre expresses her gratitude in a flat voice. Suriel shrugs with one shoulder, disappearing without being asked to. Feyre likes that about her. Suriel's not a terrible roommate.

Feyre eyes Mor now that they're alone. The blonde is pissed, practically vibrating with the angry energy. Feyre glances at the time; she stayed out far later than she intended to. "What're you doing here?"

"Were you on a date?" Mor seethes, at last, ignoring the question presented to her. Her brown eyes take in Feyre's appearance. It's evident by Feyre's nice dress and makeup that that's precisely where she was this evening.

Feyre crosses her arms defensively. "Is that a problem?"

"Are you kidding me?" Mor launches from her seat, hands out at her sides. " _Yes, it's a problem!"_

Feyre juts her chin out, and Mor's eyes flash, recognizing the challenge for what it is. "What the hell are you doing out here, Feyre? One second everything was fine, and Rhys was driving me absolutely insane planning your stupid Valentine's date—and then you just fucking _vanished_."

Rhys's name stabs through Feyre like a hot poker. Just thinking about that day makes it hard for her to breathe; her knees feel weak. Mor's sees the tell.

"You ghosted all of us—not just Rhys." Feyre's best friend's eyes are burning. "Cauldron, don't even get me started on Rhys. You _broke_ him, Feyre. Is that what you wanted? Was that your goal? Because you did a super job."

"Don't bring him up," Feyre tries to lash back, but the words only come out in a whisper. She's going to cry. Mor is here; she missed her so much.

Mor scoffs. "Why not? Does it hurt? _Good_. Because you're not supposed to be here—in Cesere, going on _fucking dates_. You're supposed to be in Velaris with us. _All of us."_

"I'm not coming back," Feyre insists. "This is my life now. This is where I live, my home."

"A bullshit life," Mor sneers. "Cesere will never be your home, and you know it."

Feyre can't help the flinch. Mor's never really aimed her vicious side at her before; it's a lot. But Feyre knows she deserves it.

"He's moving on," Morrigan goes in for the kill when Feyre remains silent. "How—"

Feyre doesn't hear whatever else her best friend says. Instead, Feyre's ears ring with the knowledge that Mor's just shared. _He's moving on._ She remembers what Rhys told her the last time she saw him: _I never stopped loving you. And I never will_.

"Just get out," Feyre cuts Mor off. The blonde gapes at her in surprise so Feyre repeats herself in a snarl. She channels every ounce of self-hate that she's feeling into her next words, "Get out and leave me alone."

Mor doesn't move.

"Now!" Feyre barks. She can practically feel it as her and Mor's special bond breaks; it's like a physical blow. One she dealt herself. Morrigan hesitates like she'd like to say something else, but Feyre can't bring herself to look her friend in the eye.

When the door finally clicks shut behind Mor, Feyre lets the tears fall.

 _You smashed it all to hell_ , Rhys told Feyre before she left.


End file.
